


Send a hope upon a wave (for all these souls you failed to save)

by Elisexyz



Series: Whumptober 2019 (Timeless) [4]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Canon Compliant - s02e11-12 The Miracle of Christmas (Timeless), Not Exactly Canon Compliant But Close, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-12-31 15:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21148190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elisexyz/pseuds/Elisexyz
Summary: The truth is, he doesn’t much care who this woman is or what she wants, unless what she wants is killing him. In which case, he’ll thank her to make it quick. He can’t stand this stupid headache anymore.





	Send a hope upon a wave (for all these souls you failed to save)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "Laced drink" prompt in the Whumptober 2019 event. Title from [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5MtvlTkns5g).  
  
A not exactly canon compliant São Paolo fic, though it doesn't interfere with anything that happens in canon. I just didn't get the impression that it went down like this, from what we were told in the show. And obviously I am not taking into account the movie. Enjoy!

He knew immediately that something was wrong: he was drunk, very much so, probably a lot more than someone in his position should be – or, depending on one’s point of view, not nearly enough –, but his head began to spin too much to be blamed on however many drinks he just had, nausea overcoming him all at once.

There was an hand on his arm, a gentle voice in his ear, and all he could think was _they’ve found me_, unsure if what he meant by that was _thank god_ or _fuck_.

(He’s pretty sure that the thought that at least the bastards had the decency to drug him before executing him popped into his head at some point.)

Any clear recollection of the rest of the night is gone in the morning, all that remains is the faint memory of stumbling off his seat, maybe trying to fight off whomever was talking to him, either a good Samaritan or a wanna-be assassin. He also thinks there were gunshots at some point in later time.

(Though those he might have simply dreamt up. After all, most of his nightmares are about gunshots in the night, these days.)

He wakes up in a motel room that has seen better days, a somewhat familiar looking woman for company. When he shoots up in a sitting position, ignoring his joints screaming in agony and his stomach turning over, she immediately stops fidgeting with the journal on her lap, startled.

“You’re awake,” she states the obvious, a tentative smile spreading on her lips.

Garcia thinks that he has seen her, the night before. He thinks she might have been the gentle voice appearing with awfully suspicious timing.

Good Samaritan or assassin?

He isn’t bound, which is a good sign. He doesn’t see any weapons around either. She doesn’t look hostile, but that doesn’t mean much.

Why would a regular woman take a strange man to her motel room?

“Who are you?” he asks, more of a growl than anything else. His head doesn’t thank him, the words painfully bouncing around his skull.

“My name is Lucy.” She gives him an hesitant look, or perhaps it’s just a worried onceover, and it makes him want to bolt out of the room. “I’m—I’m a friend.”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” he says, tightly. Save for last night, maybe. Probably. “Are you with them?” he adds then, not even daring pronouncing the name. The last time he did—he thinks he’s beginning to understand all that Voldemort bullshit.

(Lorena used to laugh at his scepticism for that superstition. _It’s just a name_, he’d protest, frustrated. _Just say it_.)

(Sometimes, _just a name_ is more than enough to kill over, it would seem.)

“If you mean Rittenhouse, no,” she says, the word rolling with incredible ease off her tongue . “On the contrary, I’m here to help _you_ fight _them_.”

At that, he can’t help snorting. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Lucy, but I am not exactly fighting anybody right now.” He throws a crooked grin her way. “The fact that I apparently followed the strange lady who appeared with suspicious timing all the way to her motel room—I suppose it says a lot about my fighting instincts, does it not?”

“In your defence, you were too drugged to really fight me on it,” she retorts, with a tentative flash of a smile that might be an attempt at levity. “_And_ I had just saved your life.”

“How’s that?” he asks, feigning some interest for the sake of—he isn’t even sure. Appearing more alive than dead? The truth is, he doesn’t much care who this woman is or what she wants, unless what she wants is killing him. In which case, he’ll thank her to make it quick. He can’t stand this stupid headache anymore.

“They had found you,” she explains, a note of reprimand, or perhaps concern, in her voice. “They slipped something in your drink, and—well, there were two, we shot it out outside, and I was able to get you away.”

“Lucky me,” he deadpans.

Lucy’s face falls a little, and he feels a sting of remorse, though nowhere nearly enough to properly apologize. Instead, he stays silent, adverting his eyes under her all too knowing gaze.

“Flynn,” she calls, gently. He doesn’t turn, but he ears the sound of her walking towards him, and his instincts kick in for a second, making his head snap up, his fingers twitching for something to defend himself with.

He hardly needs it: she only stops at the tail of the bed, dropping a journal on it.

“I know that you are hurting,” she says, soft and welcoming in a way that makes it difficult to take offence at the assumption. She looks at him with such affection and underlying sadness that he cannot doubt her words. “I _know_ that you see no way out right now—but I have one. I can show it to you. I have a way to fix everything, to destroy Rittenhouse, to save your life—to save Iris and Lorena.”

He frowns, his breath catching in his throat in spite of his brain protesting that there is no hope, that she is talking nonsense. “They are dead,” he says, tightly. It should come out as a protest, instead it echoes like a prayer, a request to just _please_ tell him that he is somehow wrong.

“I know.” She offers a small, strained smile. “But I believe we can fix that. It’s a long, crazy story, but—are you willing to hear me out?”

There’s a moment of silence, her eyes not drifting away from his, her expectation barely concealed. He doesn’t know what it is that this woman is about to tell him, he just knows that he has been drowning since when he ran away with only his broken life that night, and for the first—maybe, for the first time, he sees a rope. He wants to grab it. He sees a woman believing that there is _hope_, and he wants to see it too.

He presses his lips together. “Fine,” he breathes out, as her face breaks into an impossibly relieved smile. “I’m listening.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates comments, including: 
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
>   * “<3” as extra kudos
>   * Reader-reader interaction
> 
> If you don’t want a reply, for any reason, feel free to sign your comment with “whisper” and I will appreciate it but not respond!


End file.
